


Summer Daze

by bloodgutsandstarbucks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 07:10:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodgutsandstarbucks/pseuds/bloodgutsandstarbucks
Summary: prompt: Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street





	Summer Daze

His name is _Tony_.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name. 

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn. 

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty. 

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed. 

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork. 

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing. 

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really. 

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight. It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer. 

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years. 

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council. 

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much. 

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone _something_ to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now. 

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break. Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day. 

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is _not_,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question. 

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘_hey, watch out_’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘_thanks_’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term? Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts. 

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen. 

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him. 

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

_I’m Peter Parker_, _I bring some water - _no, wait -_ I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids_ \- definitely not - _I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - _better. 

All his efforts are for naught in the end. 

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face. 

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form. 

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of _Thunderstruck_ start playing. 

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand. 

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry. 

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee. 

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking _portable table_ and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers. 

_Appetizers_.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: _Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure._

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy. 

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts. 

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again. 

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday. 

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before, had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right? If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are _not_ particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain. 

But the one thing they _can_ master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time. 

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the _love_ you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser. To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre. 

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work. Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them. 

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door. 

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch. 

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid. 

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch. None of it is salvageable. 

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna - 

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her. 

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.” 

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute. Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices. 

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate. 

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago. 

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says. 

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat. The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.” 

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.” 

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my _life_ –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes. Heat floods his insides when he nods. 

“Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin. 

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff. 

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other. 

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with such unmistakable fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. He leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth and speaks against his lips.

“It’s perfect.” 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @darker-soft-starker


End file.
